Pain
by jalani93
Summary: If pain is just weakness leaving the body why does he hurt so damn much?


All characters belong to Marvel; I have simply borrowed them for use in this story line.

Please note, though this is not the first story I've ever written, this is the first I have posted. Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

* * *

_Pain is just weakness leaving the body... 30 yards... Pain is just weakness leaving the body... _

Coughing, Clint Barton dragged himself across the sandy floor of the ravine, ignoring the trail of blood running down his chin. He had given up walking some time ago when the gunshot wound in his thigh caused his leg to buckle under his weight.

_25 yards... Pain is just weakness leaving the body..._

How long had it been since he had called for their extraction, barely getting an unconscious Natasha aboard the aircraft before the mercenaries caught up with them? How long had it been since he had given up his safety to ensure the jet carrying his partner made it safely across the Syrian border?

_10 yards..._

After what seemed an eternity, Clint made it to his target; a man-sized crevasse in the cliff face. Panting from the effort, he wedged himself into the relatively cool shelter of the rock. With a shaky sigh, Clint- known by most of the world as Hawkeye- pulled his hand away from the bullet hole in his side to assess the damage.

The gunshot wound to his left leg was one of the worst- walking for hours hadn't helped to stop the bleeding. The hole in his side had a trickle of blood running from it as soon as he pulled his hand away. It wasn't the best sign, but from what he could tell it seemed that by some miracle the bullet had missed anything vital. There was an assortment of bumps and bruises, a few cracked ribs, a possibly broken wrist, and... _Oh yeah._ A bloody knot on the back of his head from the butt of a rifle.

"Well. I've been better..." Clint murmured to himself, "Been worse too."

With a humorless, bloody grin, Agent Barton took stock of his situation. He was suffering from blood loss and dehydration, half the low lives in Syria were hunting him (again), his locator had been damaged and was only working sporadically, and to top it off; if he died, Natasha would drag him back from Hell to kill him herself.

The chuckle he gave at the thought quickly became a gagging cough. Groaning at the pain in his busted ribs, Hawkeye rested his head back, letting his eyelids droop. A beetle scurrying up the wall inches from his face caught his attention. If the strength were still in his arm, Clint might have flicked it from his desert safe house. Instead, he opted to track the insect's progress up the wall in a daze. Summoning what strength he could, Barton tried unsuccessfully to shift again as the rock behind his head, now slick with blood, turned out to be an uncomfortable pillow.

Pain is just weakness leaving the body...

Damn, he hated that phrase. When gravely injured, Natasha had spit it at him plenty of times. The sergeant had drilled it into them in basic training. Trickshot had yelled it at him when - at twelve years old - Clint had struggled to draw his first bow because of raw finger tips. Before all of that, it was slurred at him repeatedly as he cried under the angry blows of a drunken father.

Groaning, Clint tried to stay awake, knowing he needed to wait for SHIELD, Natasha, anyone to find him. Black spread across his vision as he fumbled weakly with the chest pocket of his vest. _Maybe this will help finally balance out the red in my ledger._

Outside his tomb, the sky had turned to a vibrant orange with the setting sun. "Sorry Tasha." He mumbled, having finally conquered the pocket to pull out the crumpled photograph. "We gave them a hell of a run."

His dimming gaze locked firmly on the photograph, he gripped it as tightly as he would a life line. Clint studied the picture carefully as his head lolled to the side and he finally slipped into the darkness. _Weird, I always figured it'd be colder..._

The last image to fill Clint Barton's mind is one of emerald eyes, fiery red hair, and the echoing memory of a rare, high-pitched laughter that had come to mean more to him than life itself.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I have the rest of this story planned out, but I wanted to get some feedback on this first chapter before continuing the entire story.


End file.
